Until The Very End
by lydiamartins
Summary: He was the only person she ever hated (and loved); it's hard to forgive somebody for ruining your childhood, but it's even harder to let go. Summer break, senior year, and they're roommates—unsurprisingly, Rose is stubborn to forgive their past while Scorpius looks to move forward. Let the games begin. - various pairings, RATED T
1. prologue

**notes; i'm trying to write more multi-chaps, and i just signed up for the hpfc 100k multichap competition, so i sort of have to finish at least 100k of this story by march 15th, so i'll update as frequent as possible. also, all of my multi-chaps right now besides _crying lightning _are on hiatus, at least until i can get around to finishing this one. also not beta-read, so sorry about spag errors. **

**::**

**Until The Very End**

**::**

_November, 2007_

Rose Weasley prided herself with being the top of her class_—_

In elementary school, it wasn't that hard; all the students had to were memorize passages from their textbooks, recite them the next day in front of the class, or answer the questions in the forms of standard examinations. While the rest of the children prided themselves with having the shiniest hair (which honestly, was the slightest bit stupid in Rose's mind) or who could run the mile the fastest, Rose prided herself upon her intelligence, the only thing that would last for the rest of her life.

On a particular August morning, her parents had decided to see if she could test into middle school a year early_—_it didn't sound all too bad in her mind; middle school was something of an adventure, and Hugo and Albus and James had always bragged about how wonderful it was; of course, she passed the exam with flying marks, and there she was, on August 21st_—_

Standing in front of the looming brick building_—__Stonewall High, _the golden letters read; looking down at her baggy grey uniform, not for the first time, Rose wondered if she should have opted with St. Grogory's Primary School for another year and a half but decided against it; Headmistress Roemmelle was postiviely insane and the rest of her classmates had the work ethic of a snail (no, that would be an insult to a snail). Competition would be nice, for a change.

"Breakfast is first hour," a bored looking boy reads off, directing the rows of eager and some not-so-eager new students into the Great Hall, which wasn't so great, not really.

A cold breeze blows into the public school's cafeteria_—__Smelting's Academy would have been nicer, smarter kids_; and from looking far away, it didn't seem that much different from St. Grogory's elementary school canteen.

Boys were still throwing food at each other, except less often, under the supervision of teachers with beady eyes and professional looking clothing; her blue eyes scan the room for a familiar face. James and Albus, sitting near the front of the room, wave over at her, and she joins them, the slightest bit of relief running through her tensed muscles_—_her only friend back in St. Grogory's had been Dennis the Menace, likely named so because of his penchant for mischief (and root bear and ketchup, among other things), and even though these boys were her cousins, and they hadn't been in contact for the past two months or so, she could count on them. "This is going to be a wonderful year," James murmurs, rubbing his hands together, eyes filled with mischief.

"A really wonderful year," Albus echoes. "It's all that we've been waiting for_—him._" The two Weasley-Potter brothers glare towards a small looking boy who sits across the cafeteria, wrapped up in his own world. "He's going to make this year bloody brilliant."

"I don't even understand what you're talking about—who's he, anyway?"

They both look at her as though she's completely un-educated about the world of middle school, which quite honestly, as a sixth grader at age eleven, she probably is. "Blimey, that's Scorpius Malfoy."

She dives into the array of courses spread out across the breakfast table_—__decision made, this is really much better than elementary school. _"I thought that you hate him—" Honestly, boys don't make much sense at all, do they?

"We do; we really do hate him, after all this time."

"So how is he going to make your year brilliant?" It seems like a simple question, with a simple answer.

James and Albus roll their eyes in unison—it's quite frightening, in fact. "Fred and Dominique Weasley—they're eighth graders, but we've managed to get connections with them, and it's going to be the bloody best year ever, because of all the pranks they've inherited from their genius relatives: Fred and George Weasley. There's no way that they won't want to pair up with us against the Malfoy kid."

"Why do you even hate him in the first place? Mum keeps on telling us to let go of our grudges; to forgive, and to forget."

"He's a Malfoy," James murmurs, as if that's enough to be said. "He's a Malfoy, and I'm a Potter; it's in my blood to hate him. Yours too, don't forget."

"Well, you won't be bullying him, not if I can help it," Rose says in a matter-of-fact tone.

"You're a sixth grader; we're your elders in every aspect of the word - you just have to listen to us to what's correct," James instructs, as though the two year age gap between them makes him so much superior.

"Can't you just be friends with him?"

"Blimey, you really do belong in elementary school, don't you? He's a Malfoy—you can't ever forget that Rose, a Malfoy. Why are you so keen on making sure that we don't bully him—_oh._" James and Albus exchange a knowing look, and Rose stomps her foot impatiently upon the ground. "Well," Albus says, smiling; more like smirking. "James and I reckon that you like Malfoy."

"What, no - stop this; I don't even know him—I was just being nice—"

(The word spreads around the cafeteria, and by the end of the day, everybody's whispering _Rose-and-Scorpius _as if it's something permanent and real.)

.

They're in the same English class, apparently—

English Gifted Honors, taught by a young professor—Professor Flitwick, who bumbles around the room, yelling at the students who pass notes (who only roll their eyes and continue their numerous transgressions), who never actually lets Rose answer the question, even though she's the only one who bothers to raise her head, sitting front and center in the stuffy room. "So, Weasley, heard that you fancy me?" Scorpius leans in the seat next to her, legs crossed and arms splayed out across his brightly colored textbooks.

She rolls her eyes—a few girls in the back of the class murmur something gossip-related, because apparently, they have nothing better in their lives to do. "It was just a joke from my brothers. I don't even know who you are."

"Well, course you do—I'm Scorpius Malfoy; everybody knows who I am." _Ego the size of the sun—blimey, James and Albus really weren't lying, were they? _She thinks, flicking a strand of auburn hair from her cheekbones, casually leaning back in her white seat and trying to focus on the lecture, which becomes increasingly difficult with Scorpius talking incessantly.

"I don't care who you are—if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my homework."

He raises an eyebrow; she can see the screws working in his head—it's almost amusing, how the human mind works; _oh, she's one of those nerd types, _Rose can just imagine him thinking. "Why do you care so much about your homework anyway? We're in middle school, Merlin's sake."

"Merlin's sake?" As if he couldn't get any more eccentric.

"All the high school kids are saying it; might as well fit in." _Of course, he's one of those popular types. _

"Whatever," she murmurs, drawing out the structure of a sonnet upon her composition notebook which became increasingly difficult to do when Scorpius Malfoy maintained a glare upon her back for the rest of the hour.

.

"So, Scorpius Malfoy—I saw the two of you getting chummy," James murmurs in her ear, dropping down in the seat next to her in the Grand Hall. Albus sits down on the other side of her, trapping Rose in her spot; she only rolls her eyes in response, because honestly, they're in middle school, and there are much more important things to do than cling onto grudges and gossip.

"I've got a theory," Albus pipes up.

"Oh, do tell," Rose remarks, sarcastically, jabbing her knife into the English muffin, splattered with strawberry-scented jam.

"Scorpius likes you, or something like that, so we can use you to get to him! It's brilliant, foolproof really." James nods in approval, and the two of them clink glasses, overly smug and satisfied. _  
_

"I've got a theory of my own_—the two of you are girls._" James chokes on his water and Albus lets out a snort. "There's no other way to explain why you're so interested in gossip, why you can't let go of a grudge that hasn't come up in two generations."

.

"So, this is your great plan?" Rose asks dubiously. She stands in the middle of the school's foyer, light flickering in through the early morning lights, morning warning bell yet to be rung; neatly trimmed eyebrows arched. _  
_

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Albus looks up at the ceiling with great admiration in his eyes, obviously very smug and satisfied with himself.

"You're going to throw a cake from twenty feet up on his head―I don't even understand how you're get the cake to push itself onto the floor."

"Magic," he echoes, the words faint on his tongue, a whisper.

Rose rolls her eyes and hopes that she doesn't get a hemorrhage from overusing the muscles too much as she has been over the past few weeks, whether it would be to her arrogant cousins and her tasteless classmates. "Really Albus: magic? Don't get me wrong, it's an okay idea, but he's never done anything to hurt you, has he; this really could be dangerous."

Albus laughs, "He's a Malfoy, Rosie. That's all you need to know."

(Except she's a nice person so she dismantles the trap and finds herself staring into the cold eyes of Albus and James and knows that doing what one thinks is right isn't ever necessarily the better option.)

"Rose, you shouldn't have done that," James and Albus echo, looking at her as though she's one of the filthy Malfoys now, and Rose can't help but think that the Weasley-Potter vs. Malfoy family feud has gone on long enough. They're not even her brothers—Hugo's her older brother, and he couldn't care who she decided to be her friend, but for some reason or another, everybody else did.

Her hands are placed on her hips, fury running through her eyes. "I'll do what I like, thank you very much."

"Don't come running back to us, because all we'll say is_—_"

"I told you so." They're one and the same really, and Rose isn't quite sure why she had been friends with them in the first place_—_perhaps it was the reason why they had met in the first place, because they were all cousins, the whole Potter-Weasley-Delacour-Johnson family tree, the whole lot of them all ended up at the same school. Just her luck.

And then James and Albus leave, and Rose is left in the abandoned corridor, staring at Scorpius Malfoy; a small gash runs across his cheeks, the dark colored blood a stark contrast from his pale as ivory skin. "Thanks," Scorpius murmurs.

She smiles, despite herself, because who knew that just being nice would accomplish the impossible_—it was Scorpius Malfoy, after all, the boy with the ego the size of the Sun. _"What was that? I couldn't hear you—you can say it again, if you'd like."

"I'm not saying it again, Weasley," he mutters towards the floor, slowly regaining his confidence, his own icy blue eyes locking into stare with her green ones for a moment, and then dropping down again.

"You're welcome."

"You didn't even do anything!" Scorpius exclaims, hands clasped and fidgeting with one another.

"I just saved you from being the humiliation of the entire middle school, Malfoy—you should be on your knees thanking me," she instructs, in a matter-of-fact tone, eyes flickering with amiability_—towards a boy who isn't her relative; _God, how growing up changes you.

"Friends?"

Rose Weasley isn't friends with boys; they're either her competition or something below her, creatures who have nothing better to do than stuff their faces with food and act in an ignorant manner, or they're her cousins; she has a lot of them, anyways. "Something like that."

And then, it all spirals out of control with Rose meaning for it to_—_He invites her to his lacrosse matches to which she goes reluctantly (and then she starts wearing green and silver scarves and mittens that wrap tightly around her neck, away with the girly scarlet and red mittens wherein the cold nips at the tips of her fingers, and everybody comments on this recent development as if it's the biggest thing in the world. She drags him, unwillingly, to study sessions and he's not that stupid, not really; then again, compared to her, only a few select students compete in their intellect. Her mother wasn't Hermione Granger, the top of her class every year, for no reason.

.

On their first date, they're walking through the town_—_

Town Day_—what an appropriate name. _Fingers interlocked as winter whispers a blanket of snow upon them, it almost feels natural, as if it was meant to be. "So, where would you like to go?" Scorpius asks, uncharacteristically cheerful. It's almost cute, she thinks.

"Anywhere," she says, her breath catching in the cold winter air. She'd go almost anywhere with him.

Except all good things come to an end; She rounds the corner, hair matted to forehead from gym class—it's probably the only one where she's not on the top; at least she could blame that on her parent's genes maybe—eyes searching for the familiar mop of blonde curls; except, he's snogging Molly Weasley, and they don't look like they're going to stop anytime soon.

Her eyes harden into steel, and as she strides through the Great Hall—people look at her apprehensively, and a light murmur of 'breakups and hookups' flicker through the murky air. She only lets herself break down in the closure of her dormitory room, empty for the time being—

Nobody writes about the songs that come easy.

.

(He knows that he's messed up from the start when he sees the flash of auburn hair out of the corner of his eyes, tears starting to form—Rose Weasley never cries, he knows that much—but it's not as though he hasn't tried; her friends always barricade the doorway to the first-year dormitory, and she always ignores him, and then she gets a new boyfriend of her own, so what's the point?)

.

Rose sees him on occasion, passing in the hallways_—_

Most of the times, he's snogging girls, throwing away like Kleenex_—use one, then discard__—_and her eyes make notice never to lock with his own icy glare, steel and hardened. _You should have just stuck to the books, _Rose tells herself; second year wraps around the corner, and second year means her second boyfriend (_You always have two loves_, Victoire tells her, and of course, it's Victoire Weasley, one-hundred percent heartbreaker and boy expert, so there's no reason not to trust her, _the one who shows you the world, and the one who puts it back together after the first one left._)

"I didn't love him," Rose would only snap up. "We dated for six months_—_you don't fall in love in six months." _I don't fall in love at all, _she adds in a sidenote, and flips through the lengthy pages of a Herbology textbook.

Victoire raises an eyebrow, "Then why are you still moping over him if you didn't like him?"

"I'm not moping," she quickly corrects. "I'm moving on in a healthy way_—_I'm not going to rush moving on and end up in a dysfunctional relationship, okay?"

"You've been watching far too much television; suit yourself, though. I'll bring the Ben and Jerry's to somebody else."

"Good for them." The door bangs with a satisfying click, and Rose collapses upon the mattress, clenching a pencil in one hand, the textbook wrapped up in her arms. Rose Weasley is the top of her class, she is not weak_—_she does not eat her feelings under layers of ice cream; she won't let herself be weak because of a boy, of all reasons.

.

Lorcan Scamander is the boy she has been waiting for_—_

Top of the class, too. Plus, he's a family friend_—_not a pureblood Malfoy_—_so if they ever got so far as to meeting the family, there would be no concern in her own mind. She's walking through the hallways with him, smile reaching her eyes for once, and it's not forced anymore so Rose knows that this or whatever they can call it must be right, when Scorpius is coming in the other direction and she clenches Lorcan's hand a little tighter. "Everything all right?" He peers down at her through light hazel eyes.

"Fine," she lies back through clenched teeth. Honestly, Scorpius Malfoy shouldn't affect her this much, at least not anymore; he nears closer and closer, and then his eyes flicker onto her face, and Rose inhales a gulp and turns her chin up, eyes looking straight ahead of her, yet he still remains in the corner of her vision. "

.

For days on end after the bullying, she falls back into the world of imagination—where nothing goes wrong, except the best books are the ones where everything goes wrong, and people never really recover; her fingers are stained with ink quills, and her phone rings a few days later. _Lily Luna Potter, _the caller ID reads; Rose sighs and picks up the phone; after all, little Lily Luna never did anything wrong. "Hey Lily," she murmurs, voice tired.

"Scorpius is leaving for London_—_he's actually going to London."

She should feel joyous; the boy who's been bullying her for the past three months is finally moving away, but there's a pang inside of her heart that Rose tries to block out. "And what does that have to do with me?" She knows the answer, of course.

"Well, I just thought that you would like to say good-bye to him; everybody's leaving to King's Cross in a few hours, so_—_"

Rose hangs up the phone.

.

_June, 2012_

A hoard of children vacate the premises of, beaming smiles embedded upon their faces_—_their eyes gleam and whisper (more like shout, but still) promises of the best summer ever, one without the worries of homework and summer reading assignments. A hoard of to-be seniors don their SENIORS sweaters over threadbare shorts; among them, Rose, Victoire, and Lily Luna, who remain in the center of the crowd, Victoire dwarfing the two of them.

"It's going to be the best summer ever," Lily Luna exclaims, voice filled with excitement and innocence, the way Rose's used to be before her dreams were crushed by stupid, little boys who make more of a lasting impact than they honestly should; but she's over that, really.

Victoire raises an eyebrow, "That's a matter of opinion, Lily—Rose looks a little less than thrilled about the summer getaway. Summer getaway―my treat," She announces, hands clasped together, all prim and proper.

"It's my birthday anyways, so I've paid for all you guys, and I've invited the boys too, so none of you have any reason for not going."

Rose hesitantly grabs the ticket. "First-class tickets, Victoire? Really?"

"What?" She smiles, smugly.

She rolls her eyes in response, directing her eyes towards the ground from the rays of sunlight, bright and deadly. "I don't even understand how you can afford this. Louis complains all the time about how he can't buy a lunch because it's too expensive―"

"He's lying; he'd just rather spend the money on other things. Like video games. And books. Whatever, you're coming, right?"

Rose heaves a sigh, contemplating; it wasn't as though she has anything better to do over summer holidays, but honestly, Victoire was unpredictable, and she'd rather be safe than sorry. "Well―"

"Great! It's settled then. I'll pick up the two of you, tomorrow morning, seven o'clock?"

"Make it ten." If anything, she'd at least have her sleep, if not her free will in the matter.

"Seven thirty. See you then!" _Great,_ Rose thinks. _Just bloody fantastic. _The next day, she finds herself staring upon the Delacour-Weasley's summer home_—_it's something carved out of dreams, really, surrounded by arrangements of flowers, and the sheer size seems colossal, shielding them from the balmy heat. "Your room's upstairs," Dominique, Victoire's younger sister, says in a matter-of-fact tone. "You'll love it."

A boy with icy, pale features is splayed across the mattress, Beats headphones plugged into his ears—despite the expensive headphones, Rose can still hear the rap music pounding in her ears, and pinches herself once more. _This has to be a dream—more like a nightmare, honestly, or some sort of prank; I knew that Dominique was up to no good, I should have known; I mean her father's George Weasley, king of troublemaking— _Scorpius turns towards the door, smirk imprinted upon a face of ice, then drops upon seeing her. "What the hell are you doing here." It's not even a question, really.

Rose screams.

.

**notes - there should be monthly updates on this, especially since spring break's coming up. i'd really like feedback since this is my first hp multi-chap xx 'll go more into the bullying in more chapters and what happened between them and all of the characters will be explained more, not just rose and scorpius, since i know that a lot of the minor characters in here were a bit too vague. **

**please leave feedback, c:**


	2. i

_a/n; sorry for spag errors in advance._

_word count; 6,118 words._

PROLOGUE (CONT.)

::

Daylight stretches taut across the landscape; children flock along the beach, sunlight dancing on their bare skin. It is the signal of summer, flocks of birds and ravens in the sky, unusual omens of darkness, but winter is not coming, not for several months, and they will be safe until then_—_wisterias and flowers of azure shade trail around the individual summer homes, a border of security. On the second floor, Rose stands, arms crossed, eyes wide open with something akin to shock and anger muddled within them; across from her, Scorpius Malfoy rests with a smirk, laidback.

Victoire comes rushing into her room, beads of sweat collecting on her forehead from the balmy sun. "Bloody hell, what's wrong; is it ambulance bad? Or is it just something minor?"

Rose flails her hands, then places them down, nails pinching into her palm, trying to ignore the fact that Scorpius looks at her as though she's something to laugh at, something of amusement, when this is a completely serious situation, and all of them are just acting like children. "You didn't tell me that I'm rooming with _it_."

"Glad to know that I'm an _it _to you Rose; how quickly you dismiss our love." His words sound rehearsed, as though he's been waiting for a moment, or a situation like this to use those words, and Rose narrows her eyes, because this isn't how Scorpius is supposed to be_—_he's either supposed to be nice or he's supposed to completely ignore her, not something in between.

She sends a death glare back to him. "Just leave the room already, would you?" He shrugs, exiting the room, and the anger leaves along with him; it's more something of tired and annoyed. "I'm not doing this; just ask Lily Luna or Roxanne to room with him - I'm sure that Lily would love to." The words slip out of her mouth before she's meant to and Victoire sends her a warning look. "You know what I mean. Anywhere. I'll room anywhere except with him."

"But you two are friends, right?" Victoire asks, obliviously. "Dominique said the two of you knew each other back in middle school."

Rose sighs_—_maybe this was the problem with having friends who were your cousins; you told one thing to your parents, and another thing to your friends, but Victoire was her cousin, so she was more of her family than anything else, anyways. "What the hell, Victoire_—_you know the truth, so stop pretending to be a complete bloody idiot and fix this situation!"

"I actually have no idea what you're talking about. Lily Luna says that you talk about him, so_—_" She sends a death glare towards Victoire, who doesn't seem to get the message, but stops making the situation worse at least; Scorpius barks out a laugh (never left, did he, then?), not bothering to cover his mouth. Typical.

"So, you're talking about me, Weasley?"

Her eyes narrow; Rose's cheeks flush an uncharacteristic shade of red nevertheless, matching her fiery tendrils of hair. "Just leave, would you?" _Everything would b a lot easier and better in this world if people just did what I told them to do, _she thinks, arms crossed.

"This is my house too. I'll be seeing the both of you around?"

"When hell freezes over," she mutters back, slamming the door in his face; Victoire looks at her with an amused grin splayed across her face, and Rose's eyes widen. "Stop it! Can't you just fix this situation; it's not that hard, really. Just move around the rooming arrangements."

"Who is this Scorpius Malfoy to you anyway? An angry ex?"

"Something like that," Rose admits. "But he doesn't even count as an ex_—_he's an arrogant asshole, and I don't want to have the rest of my summer break ruined because of him. Okay?"

"I'm sorry!" Turning around, Rose sees the tears running down Victoire's cheeks, and thinks that this summer is already going to hell. "You must hate me now; I was just trying to pair everybody up together, and I thought that it would be fine, I'm so sorry."

Rose inhales a deep breath, and pats Victoire's back in a somewhat reassuring manner. "It's fine, Victoire; It's okay. I'll find some way . . . or not, to deal with the situation, okay?"

"Okay."

She backs out the door only to see Scorpius Malfoy leaning across the frame of the door, smirk plastered onto his arrogant features. "Well, I guess that we're going to be roommates." Rose breaks into a sprint (and thinks that at least it's better that they don't have to room together, only live in the same house) and only stops when she's reached her bedroom (and they spelled her name wrong, somehow, of course), flops down upon the hollow mattress, and screams.

* * *

_Junior High School_

Albus sets down the tray next to her, sliding onto the mahogany seat, teeth crunching down upon an English muffin, hand reached for a jelly knife; mouth half-way open, asks, "Are you going to go talk to him, or something?"

Rose raises an eyebrow, "Or something?"

Albus barks out a laugh, turning towards her with something of worry in his muddled bright blue eyes. "Blimey, Rose, I don't understand how long you're going to hold a grudge for, but please do remember, this is only junior high."

"You're only saying that because you're friends with Scorpius, and Mum will think that's something's a bit wrong if I refuse to even go near him with a ten foot pole. I know I'm right, so don't even think of denying it."

"It's for your own good, too, Rosie. You ever think that there was more to the matter than what you saw?"

"Like you said, we're in middle school. Things are simple, not complicated; there's never anything written between the lines." Junior high school was something to be carved out of dreams_—_her Mum and Dad had gone to some academy called Hogwarts, but they never spoke of the place, but she'd seen pictures of places that looked like they were to be of postcards from the wonders of the world_—_but it really wasn't. _Why couldn't have I gone to Hogwarts? _She had asked her parents; they had only looked at each other with something of nervousness, and said, _Hogwarts wasn't a safe place anymore. _

"At least give him a chance, would you?"

Something sparks in Rose's mind, and her eyebrows narrow, and she curses her stupidity, because honestly, ever since Albus started speaking about _him_, this should have been the first question flickering through her mind. "Did he put you up to this?"

"Wait, what?"

"Merlin, I should known that Scorpius had set you up to this! I mean, I know you're his best friend, and just because we're cousins, oh, that's just wonderful; have you been spying on me the whole of this week? Or how long, who knows?"

Albus sighs, looking around the canteen as though he would rather be sitting anywhere else; Rose wonders why he doesn't just go sit where he usually does, next to Scorpius's bunch, and thinks that eating lunch in the library, like she usually had done (until the librarian had decided that social interaction was something necessary) would have been a million times better than whatever this was turning out to be. "Just go talk to him, would you?"

"I don't even understand why you care so much what happens between Scorpius and I."

"Well, don't tell, but he's been moping around for the past few weeks, and we have a lacrosse game this weekend, and if he continues to mope around, then we're probably going to lose—after James, you see, he's the star player—and we've got to win this came to get into the championships."

A slight smile flickers onto her face at the mention of moping around; some sort of sick pleasure that Rose wasn't going to waste time feeling guilty about. "That's good that he's moping around. He deserves it."

"Go talk to him, or I'll tell your Mum and Dad about your whole relationship with the Malfoy."

Her eyes widen, and then narrow, inspecting Albus_—_it really wasn't that hard to see if somebody was lying, but then again, Albus said a lot of far-fetched things and usually carried them out because he was that ignorant, but he wouldn't go that far, would he? "You wouldn't dare. I'll tell your parents that you were, uh, you weren't doing your homework and you've failed two test so far, so."

Albus barks out a laugh, "Do you really think that they're going to be that mad at me because I haven't been doing so well academically when you're basically, you slept with the enemy, in a way!"

"Shut up, Albus!" Roses's cheeks flush almost the same shade as her bushy auburn hair, and she resists the urge to punch Albus in the face or something like that, because for Merlin's sake, they had been in sixth grade, not a television reality show.

"Would you really want to risk it though, either way?"

"Fine," she grudgingly accepts, closing her books and turning towards Albus, as though she's ever so interested in this stupid matter; honestly, everything about junior high school is really stupid and immature, and so are its people. "Then what am I supposed to say to him?"

"What did the two of you usually talk about before, you know, the break-up?"

She purses her lips, taking a breath, "It's different now, Albus. You're older than me, you should understand that much."

"Yeah, but I've never actually been a relationship," he admits; the words seem casual, instead of forced, and Rose's eyes narrow_—_there's no way that there's somebody that she knows of, somebody that's on the lacrosse team (second string, and all, but the girls aren't all that picky these days) who's never dated anybody before. Just last year, basically everybody was dating_—_if they weren't, then something was somehow psychologically wrong with them; how much had things changed in less than eight months? A lot, apparently.

"Really? Shouldn't you have dated at least two, three girls by now?"

"Blimey, Rose, not everybody's like Scorpius, not even his best friends. We're in middle school; we've got all the time in the world to find the one that we want to be with. Why do you have to start rushing into it now? There should be more to life than that."

"Since when did you get so wise?"

"You just haven't been listening. And if you think I'm so wise, then you should go talk to Scorpius; it's best not to make enemies, especially not this early."

"Believe me, my Dad wouldn't be that put off if I declared Scorpius Malfoy to be my archnemesis." It wasn't as though her father would be so angry if she had become friends with Scorpius, but it was just for her own good, really, that she didn't go falling in love with a boy from the other side of town. Albus stares at her, eyes narrowing. "Fine, fine, fine; I'm going, alright?"

Rose picks up her books, and leaves; She finds herself standing, legs crossed, hands fidgeting, at the front of the lunch table in the center of the canteen_—_it's not like in some movie where all ten of the students there suddenly swirl around in their chairs, eyes staring into her soul; she would have preferred that over the silent treatment that they were giving her, or maybe, they just didn't notice her. Maybe. "Can I talk to Scorpius?"

"Why would Scorpius Malfoy want to talk to you, midget? Just leave us alone, would you?"

Scorpius's eyes lock with hers, but then he looks quickly away, as if he's never seen her before; Rose turns around, and walks out of the canteen, something heavy inside that she couldn't quite understand.

(Eyes on the floor, eyes on the floor; don't look back.)

* * *

_Present Day_

_Fish are disgusting_, Rose thinks to herself. They're floppy creatures that fall onto the pavement, spitting out water until they stop moving at all; scales covers their sides, slimy to the touch, and in the heat of summer, they shine like something carved out of dreams, and she's tempted to touch them again as though they're some mystical creature (_Fish, _Rose reminds herself, _not a unicorn_) and then does so, and then squirms.

Summer burns holes into her back, and it's only June; "June Eleventh," she mutters. Apparently, she was going to be stuck here for the rest of the summer, just because Dominique had made a mistake, or Victoire had made a mistake, but it wasn't really their faults_—_Rose thinks that if she told herself that she would be in this sort of situation ten years ago, she would have laughed at her own face. This was never the plan.

It was supposed to be something of a day of celebration, that they were finally done with 11th year, and then 12th year would roll around, and then before they knew it, it was going to be the end of the only home they had ever known_—_friendships would be over, they would split up, and most likely, stay in contact with each other and skip university lectures on weekends to hang out with each other, but it still wouldn't be the same.

So, Rose was planning on cherishing summer while it lasted, even if Scorpius Malfoy was along for the ride. "Rose Weasley, then?" There's a tap on her shoulder, and Rose falls into this semi-awkward defense position that her father had taught her; it had gone along the lines of:

("Bless your mother, you've got her wits, but you've got her beauty too; what about the boys, then?"

"Dad!" She had exclaimed, fourteen years of age; course, her parents never figured out about the whole thing with Scorpius. Or Lorcan. It was almost as though they were trying to be oblivious.

"You'll need to learn to defend yourself." So then, every morning, he would collect her and her cousins and teach them some sort of self defense lesson_—_it was highly humiliating and her friends would have left if their parents weren't somehow related to Rose's father, and it was just basically useless in the end, but there were some good memories too. Like the time she got to knee Scorpius in the gut before he left for London.)

"Lysander, thank God you're here_—_Victoire never mentioned that you were coming?" She stands up, and quickly embraces Lysander, then steps back, because for Merlin's sake, they haven't been best friends since three years prior, ages ago; his mother was Luna Lovegood, one of her dad's best friends, but Rolf Scamander was something else entirely. If Rose didn't know better, she would have said that he had gotten a little loony; Albus had made that pun up, so proud of himself. _  
_

"Well, you haven't exactly been communicating with me lately. Did you get my calls or did you just choose to ignore them?"

She takes a deep breath, inhaling in a smell of security; there is silence in the ambiance, the occasional screech of a raven that lands on the barbed fence, before flying off in the other direction_—_it smells of pine needles and smoke, and it's not exactly the first raven that Rose has seen this summer vacation. "I'm sorry about that; are we still friends though?" Because it's not like Rose Weasley to be anything but direct; she'd rather not waste anymore time in the world about indirect words and such.

"Yeah, I reckon so." Rose gives a hesitant smile back at him.

"So, how've you been these days?" And then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees the familiar blonde hair and looks down at the ground, then at the sky. "Oh, god. Not him again."

Lysander clenches her hand tightly, reassuring; it's a bit painful, but not as painful as the glare that Scorpius Malfoy stares into her not-so-bright eyes, and Rose isn't even quite sure why she still cares. "What are you doing here, Malfoy? I thought that we were going to establish boundaries_—_you have your friends, I have mine."

Lysander looks the slightest bit guilty. "Well, uh, you see, Rose, I didn't know about what happened with you_—_honest to God, don't get mad at me, but you've been a bit distant lately. Scorpius and I, we're mates."

"Mates?" She raises an eyebrow, arms crossed.

"Friends; ever heard of the word, Weasley?" Scorpius sneers, but it's almost friendly; Rose won't let herself associate somebody like Scorpius Malfoy as _friendly._

"I've got tons of them," she replies back, cursing her stupid brain for not being able to think of something clever and snappy; her brain's just not really engineered that way. "But Lysander's my best friend. Albus is your best friend, and just because he's not here, it doesn't mean that you can steal my best friend, too." Rose tugs on Lysander's long-sleeved shirt, thin fabric curled in her fists. "Come on Lysander, we're leaving."

Lysander only shrugs, mouths an apology, and follows Rose who's more angry than anything.

(Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know; don't let it show.)

* * *

As soon as she enters the main summer home, Lily Luna waits expectantly at the door, as though she's been waiting for Rose's arrival. "I've got you a gift_—_Vicky told me about the whole situation with Scor; oh, hi Lysander; so I thought that this might cheer you up."

Lily disappears into the living room, and Rose looks hesitantly at Lysander, a bit of fear flickering through her ears. Still looking at Lysander, she calls out, "Uh, Lily, I think that it's really not necessary for you to buy me a gift." _Because the last time that you bought me a gift it was this fish that you won at a carnival. It was already dead when you gave it to me. _"Really, the whole situation with Scorpius isn't that bad." _Lies. _She returns back, something akin to a cat, except with several more layers of fur that look as though they haven't been brushed or washed or cleaned in ages, and thin bones, nestled in her arms, and hands it over to Rose. "A cat, Lily? A cat?"

"Well, I thought that you like cats."

"When I was seven years old." Little Lily Luna Potter almost looks crestfallen, and Rose manages out a tight smile, lips pursed. "Never mind, Lily, I love her. Thanks so much, really."

"It's a him!" Lily calls out, but Rose is already out the door.

Hours later, she sits on the carpeted surface of the summer house's living room (apparently, there were ten houses, two people in each of them; even if her roommate wasn't an ideal choice, Rose had to admit that the architecture was something carved of dreams), stroking her hand over the fur; The fur is something of azure shade, though the appearance is of marasmus; the kitten lets out a small mewl, and Rose holds the cat tight to her stomach, petting it. She smiles to herself, laughing, "Well, Scorpius is going to be really angry when he finds out about you, now isn't he?"

(Speak of the devil, and the devil appears.)

"What the hell is that supposed to be?" Complete with the dramatic entrance and the slamming of a door; seriously, Rose thinks that Scorpius should belong in a comic book, with lightning and hate spewing out of his eyes. Or maybe that's just how she imagines him. Either way, it's an amusing thought, and she has to bite her lip to stop from laughing, while Scorpius, on the other hand, looks downright furious.

"My mum bought a cat when she was younger," Rose states in a matter-of-fact tone. "It only makes sense that I carry on the tradition."

"Blimey, why can't you be a normal girl and just buy a small dog that doesn't shed or a collection of diamond necklaces?" Rose rolls her eyes at the stereotype that has been created for teenage-aged girls; standing out and being different really wasn't hard these days.

"You know nothing about me," she replies back, placing Pigaupsy on the floor, arms crossed.

"Maybe I'd like to."

She recomposes, and laughs to herself. "Scorpius Malfoy, I gave you a chance in middle school, and that's probably the worst mistake I've ever made." Besides trusting Albus and James with her Malfoy-secret; they had blabbed about it to all of the cousins_—_it was a honest-to-God, thank Merlin surprise that her parents had never found out about her getting cozy with a Malfoy. _Maybe Mum would have been okay, Dad on the other hand, _Rose thinks, laughing to herself quietly. _Maybe._

"You still care about middle school? Merlin, Rose, that was four, five years ago, I think? You need to move on, if you're holding grudges from that long ago."

"Look, Malfoy, I don't care how long it was ago_—_you broke my heart, and now you're here what, to shove your obnoxious, arrogant face in my presence? Just find some other girl to destroy, would you?"

She's the one to walk away, picking up her kitten who looks almost as out of place as she is, falling onto her bed after a slammed door, fists clenched.

(Life is something out of nightmares; there's no room for dreams.)

* * *

**PART I.**

Elsewhere, within the mountains of Solace and Solitude, topped by the peaks of snowy cascades, frozen water melted within the heat of binded wands, haggard men and women muttering incantations to the Old Gods (these are Gods of trees and forests, before the gods of Pain and Death and everything that is the inevitable, were created), on their knees. Nestled in between the mountains lies the Citadel_—_

A man, if a creature can be called a man, sits upon the throne; it is a throne carved out of metal and sticks and stones and magic, and every man and woman in the Seven Realms who knows that the Dark Lord has returned, dreams of sitting upon it, staph in one hand, crown resting upon their head. "You know why I've called you all together," the Dark Lord murmurs, words echoing across the cavernous walls. "It's been twenty-five years, now, has it? Twenty-five years since I had fallen, but I am back from the dead, I am back to reclaim what is mine. Look upon the ceiling, would you?"

Hesitantly, the assembled Death Eaters_—or what's left of them; most of them rot in the cells of Askaban, Dementors preying on their souls, but never reaching close enough to pronounce the Kiss of Death, or somewhere in the Seven Realms, their bones weakening, and death whispers upon them, urging them to come forward and to claim their prize: eternal_ rest—look upon the ceiling, fear flickering in their eyes.

"Twenty-five years, and nothing has changed," one mutters beneath their breath. "My Lord, was this really necessary?" The Death Eaters; they were originally a motley collection, a conglomeration of the weak souls seeking protection under the greatest Dark wizard of all time, the ambitious seeking some shared glory (but in their minds, it was never shared; they dreamed of taking control, of taking the throne from themselves, but those are the current days; in the past, they wouldn't have even thought of undermining their Lord, a wizard so powerful that he would destroy them all, and still win the war; but he hadn't, even with their assistance), and the thugs gravitating towards a leader who could only interest their minds with more refined displays of cruelty.

"Necessary?" The Dark Lord hisses out; the Death Eater, black hood worn down, mask with snake-like eye slits covering his face, does not don the mark of the Dark Lord (rarely any of them do nowadays). "Necessary?"

Belvin Yaxley trembles in his seat, "I only meant, my Lord, that this Muggle," he starts, motioning toward the Muggle man who is draped upon the ceiling, snakes feasting on his rotting flesh. "What has he done to deserve this sort of punishment? He hasn't done anything wrong, he hasn't openly defied us, he hasn't shown any knowledge of knowing of the Wizarding World_—"_

_"_He is a Muggle," the Dark Lord sneers out, lips curving into a snarl. "That should be enough. Do you think that you have any right to tell me what is right, to tell me what is necessary?" The man on the throne sneers, lips drawn tightly together, melting skin on his face drawn taut; the crown rests upon his head, perfectly fitted, and he sits comfortably upon the throne, as though this is his home. His crown is of golden facade. "Do you want this crown, Yaxley?"

The frightened man shakes his head quickly, backing up, looking around quickly at the throng of Death Eaters that gather around him, haunting faces, all pale and white and they look like the God of Death for a flicker, as if they are so powerful, to hold the value of a man's life within their grasp. "No, your Lordship, only you are fit to be our King."

His eyes are frightened, and Moryvn of Riddle, son of the Dark Lord, stands by his father's side, and looks up at the ceiling and thinks that all of these men, all of these amassed Death Eaters who plot against his father behind his back, are so weak, that just with the mention of death, they recoil back into hushed words, false promises, and oaths; _Father should have made them all swear Unbreakable Vows of loyalty, _he thinks. _Maybe that could have kept them loyal._

It's been fifteen or so years since the Battle of Hogwarts; Professor Dumbledore, haggard old man, supported and loved by his people (they would stand by him, even if it meant sacrificing their lives, which in most of their cases, it did; the Dark Lord was never known to be merciful because mercy, no matter what anybody else said, was always associated with weakness) was supposedly the greatest wizard of all time.

Moryvn had heard of such Professor Albus Percival Dumbledore at Dumbledore's Last Stand, or so the "good" wizards called it (his father called it the Last Stand of the Great Coward, a man who had sacrificied his life for the life of thousands of others, a man who never feared death but only feared the greater loss that was yet to come) and he was not a man of impressive stature, yet the Dark Lord seemed to tremble at his words of truth. "He was once a father to me," Voldemort had uttered, one of his weaker moments, lying on the floor. "Never again. Never again. I'll kill him."

And, of course, Professor Dumbledore had an army of one thousand students (mere children, nothing more, but with gold and scarlet and green and ice and dark blues and bright yellows embedded in their veins; _Hogwarts, now and forever, _Moryvn had heard tales of them, chanting these words over and over again, until their dying breaths; and they were strong together) and magical creatures and Aurors and the rest of the Ministry of Magic who hadn't been converted to the dark side, but his father was greater.

The Dark Lord had amassed an army of trolls and giants and thieves and witches and Dark wizards, and in life, wicked always win, and Moryvn wouldn't have it any other way.

("How was I born?" Morvvn had asked Yaxley, one of his tutors, upon a younger age.

"You were not born the typical way, your Grace, but it is better to be extraordinary, as your birth was; you were born from darkness and hate, from flesh and blood.")

It was a suitable answer, something that he could be proud of; there would be no woman in all of the Realms that was as powerful as his father, and the Dark Lord only deserved the darkest. Moryvn stares down upon Yaxley, who trembles. "Take the crown," the Dark Lord hisses.

"Oh, no," Yaxley the Coward refuses. "I could not don something so impressive; it is a crown fit for a King, and I am a mere peasant."

The lips of the Dark Lord curve upward into a snarl. "Take the crown, Yaxley." The words are uttered calmly, but any one of the idiots amassed could see the uncontrolled fury that was raging in his hollow red eyes. He bends down from his throne, standing up; the face of Voldemort is a monstrous thing to be seen, something of the biological impact of a duel, and the shape of his face is something so distorted that it belongs to a monster. "Take the crown."

With trembling, shaking hands, Yaxley leans forward and seizes the golden object. It is of a golden facade, that much he knows, for the crown of a Dark Lord could not be composed and carved out of goodness and something stupid such; Yaxley, cautious, presses the crown to his head. Second by second passes before it starts to transform into a collection of small bones linked together with rotting flesh; it is a crown composed of flesh and bone and blood and sorrow, and it eats away at the soul of Yaxley, who falls onto the floor. "Dead," the Dark Lord murmurs onto the fresh corpse. "You are more useful to me than when you were alive."

The Death Eaters amassed look at each other, startled, but regain their composure; there is not a moment to waste, and not a flicker of weakness to be shown.

It is something of a biological attribute allowing great Dark wizards to survive fatal injuries, such as the spell from the Elder Wand, and as the whole crowd knows, The Dark Lord does not fear anything at all, of course not, but he simply does not wish to die, and his wishes are their commands; his eyes are hollow and red, carved out from his skull and sagging from where they were meant to be, blackened face dripping with some sort of liquid, gruesome looking teeth that belong to a creature carnivorous from a prehistoric era. His nose has sunken into ashen flesh, blood turned a bitter black color, but drained out of his body; he will never bleed again, the Dark Lord will never be weak once more.

Voldemort smiles, steps down from the throne, and plunges his clawed hand into the torso of Yaxley, pulling out a damp heart; he crushes it over his body, and shrivels into a smaller form of himself, weak and demented, frightening nonetheless. One of his servants holds its master in hands, placing it carefully into a steaming cauldron that rests in the middle of the Great Hall, and drops in the hearts of the "good" wizards assembled as they fall to the floor, bodies ready to rot, then steps back. Moryvn leans farther in his seat, toes tapping upon the cold tiled floor. "If this works," Callum Pettigrew, son of one of the only loyal servants the Dark Lord ever had, "We'll rise up again, is that it?"

Moryvn leans back in his throne, a smaller and less grand version of that of his father's. "We'll see." It is best not to become arrogant and prideful.

The potion turns a blinding white, sending out bright sparks, then finally simmering down, and a thick white steam erupts; the Dark Lord steps out, robed.

"I am reborn from the ashes," Voldemort murmurs, touching his young skin once more, cherishing in the feel of youth, for youth, youth is something that people from the beginning of the time have aspired for_—_it is a time of safety (for all men must die, but in soldiers' hearts, there is something of mercy and pity for the stray, orphan of a child) and joy_—_even the Muggles, obsessed with their products and surgeries to make themselves young once more. Oh, what the mortals would not do for another day of life; but one day would turn into forever, would it not?

"Father; truly, is that you?" Moryvn of Riddle stands up from his throne, standing before his father, power flickering in his eyes, something of bloodthirst and lust thrown away by the desire for power, and it envelops him in a blanket of darkness. "Oh, could that truly be you?"

Voldemort smiles, cackles, throws his head back; the Death Eaters cheer on, but there is fright in their eyes, and they know what they must do, they know the winning side of the battle, now; it is with Voldemort. Evil can be crushed by good, yes, but he is wicked, and wicked always wins; just a boy, looks like his former self, but with all those additional years to take back the kingdom that could have been his before. "Who will give me their wand, then?" On the other hand, the collection of good wizards (but they are not good, there is evil and good on every side of the war, for this truly is war) look upon Voldemort as though he is crazed with insanity.

"Can I kill them father, please?" Moryvn is a young boy, age of sixteen, but the blood in his eyes are cold; he will make his father proud, one day. "Please let me gifted with this honour."

"Not this time, boy," Voldemort spits out. "Your wand, then?"

It is his father, but Moryvn is hesitant; the Death Eaters look on in silence, for giving a wand to the Dark Lord is knowing that you will never receive it again; it's not like losing a member of your family, a wound that will heal with time, but losing a limb_—_a constant reminder that you are powerless. "Father," Moryvn acknowledges, "Father, not my wand, please."

"I am your ruler, am I not; you will give me your wand." The words are cold and slither across the surface of the floor, and Morvyn hands over his wand with clammy hands, and knows that this is not the worst of his losses_—there is the loss that is yet to come._

With a flick of the dragonblood, heartstring wand, Voldemort screams, "AVADA KEDAVRA!" There is a cry of pain from the last remaining human_—_he greets Death like an old friend, as though half of him is missing, and he will be completed upon meeting Death; _George Weasley,_ Moryvn thinks, _is the man's name_; and then nothing, and Voldemort, reborn from the ashes, young face, leans back in his throne, and smiles.

.

.

.

**tbc.**

* * *

**some of you were asking if this was going to be an AU or a muggle!AU; this is going to be a muggle!au at first, but i'm going to incorporate the magic aspect of it through some sort of rebellion/war (because then they're forced to work together, maybe); this chapter included a bit about the "enemy" and i'll probably continue with this storyline for a while. any thoughts on it? ****also, do you guys think that i should have these shorter length chapters (4kish) and weekly updates or longer chapters and monthly updates?**

**also, in this storyline, i implied that scorpius was somehow psychologically bullying her, and i'll go into that with more flashback scenes in future chapters, but i think i'll make them start grudgingly be friends around chapter four/five/six, so that it seems more realistic.**

**thank you so much for all the review, favorites, and alerts! seriously it really does mean a lot and i tried to fix most of the errors, but i'm american so i don't know that much about all the british terminology.**

**please review, (:**


	3. ii

_Junior High School_

"What are you doing here?" Victoire drops into the seat next to her, looking a little out of place in the nearly empty school library—it's usually crowded during the lunch period, full of students who would rather spend their time doing something useful than wasting it with their friends, but then again, for most of them, if they had friends, they wouldn't be eating in the library, sneaking in bites of food when the librarian wasn't looking.

Rose rolls her eyes, "Isn't it obvious? I'm finishing up that paper for Diviniation." Truth be told, it was interesting that the school was incorporating all sorts of new classes into their curriculum for some of the younger students, but Professor Trelawney was completely batty, always going on and off about how there was going to be some great war in the Wizarding World, and then went on to predict all of their deaths and major events in their lives—and the worst part was that sometimes, Professor Trelawney was eerily correct.

Victoire yawns, bored, "Yeah, well I'm procrastinating on that paper since it isn't due for another three months—"

"I like to finish things ahead of time." _Many students, talented though they are in loud bangs and smells and sudden disappearings, are yet unable to penetrate the veiled mysteries of the future, _Professor had said.

"Maybe you're just trying to distract yourself. Lily told me about everything that happened, but I haven't heard Molly's side of the story yet, so don't think that I'm picking sides or anything."

Rose rolls her eyes again and wonders if it's possibly to tear her eye muscles if she overuses them this much. "This isn't a war, Tori, you don't have to pick sides or anything like that. Just let me finish my homework ahead of time, and stop pretending as though everything that I'm doing has an ulterior motive—you and Lily both."

Victoire shrugs her shoulders. "Then, I guess that you wouldn't care that Scorpius is taking Molly to the Spring Fling next weekend. Or that they're finally official, completely and utterly official, unlike you guys who were sort of official but it was more of a closeted relationship, I think."

Rose clenches her fists and rolls her eyes the ceiling another time, steady breaths, fingers unlaced and tightly clenched upon a thin pencil, ready to snap and break (perhaps, just like her). "I'm sorry Victoire, but I don't know what you're trying to do—Scorpius and I are on friendly terms, and Molly's my cousin and I don't hate her or anything, so please, just stop trying to stir up drama." _But for Merlin's sake, they're in junior high school, and apparently, if one member of the friend circle has a somewhat complicated love life, the other members of the friend circle think that it's their utmost duty and responsibility to complicate everybody else's life a thousand times more, _Rose thinks, dipping her quill back into the ink. "I really don't care."

From the look in Victoire's eyes as she leaves, Rose can tell she's lied in vain.

* * *

_Summer Home, Present-Day_

In the midst of summer nights, Rose dreams of the Darkness—

(Somewhere, a river gurgles.

Birds and an assortment of brightly colored snakes hiss, whispers on their tongues of destruction and solitude; nestled between the mountains of solace and solitude lies the Citadel - she can see it in the distance, looming towers, sweeping banisters, something of a home, something lost and found, it whispers to her. A carriage travels down King's Road, lined with gold, a sitting target, waiting for bandits from the Woods (the Northerners, they are called, the Northerners who will one day reclaim their kingdom) to attack them, slashing their throats with the power of weaponry and superiority in numbers.

Men, the tin soldiers, line the carriage, clunking around, feed trodding loudly upon the cracked pavement, faces covered by steel and iron; nothing more than tin boxes, really. "Rose, darling," the voices call out; they sing her name upon the edges of trees, carrying it through the wafting wind.

Blue eyes pierce through the darkness, fingers reaching hesitantly to uncover the window; her nurse looks up, brown eyes sharp and knowing and admonishes the action, "Rose, resume your knitting. We are to arrive at the Castle in nothing more than four hours; if you are not to finish your work before the festivities, you shall not arrive at the festivities."

Rose raises an eyebrow, "It is the King of another land's coronation; I will be there, I am a Guest of Honor - if you are to stop me from arriving there, my father will find another to replace you."

"You aren't to speak to me like that. You are to speak with respect to your elders—"

"My elders, yes, in terms of the King and the Queen, members of royalty, but remember your place, Septa. If you don't mind me saying, it isn't very fit for a woman to act as though she is superior, much less a woman of your colour." The words are sneered, and stated quickly, slight amounts of fear and trepidation seeping through, only to receive the answer of a submissive nod; the corners of Rose's lips curve into a sneer, and she stares outside the window, dreaming of paradise.

Walden was to be something of paradise, if one was ever to reach such an utopia—Rose presses her flushed cheeks to the side of the window, letting the cold mist settle upon her skin. "As I was telling your father, you are ready, my Lady, ready to claim the throne as your own." _Saying words to see that my father will not send her back to the streets, _she thinks; _Septa is nothing more submissive and cunning than the rest of them; _it seems as though, from everything that she's read in books and studies, every person in the Seven Kingdoms wishes to sit upon the throne at Walden.

She's seen the throne, before—only in pictures, of course; it's something carved out of dreams and the purity of traditional magic, and within a few days, it will be hers (until somebody prettier and younger comes along). Rose sighs, "This is not a matter of thrones and fun and games; this is not a game. This is a competition; radical ideas from the East, what do they call them? Survival of the fittest, I believe."

"Remember your home, what you are." It is not the first time that Septa has told her this—to remember that though you will be a Queen of the Realm, the Queen at Walden, Walden does not run through your veins; you must remember where you are born, iron runs through your veins, nothing of flimsy stardust, hopes and dreams; it doesn't feel that way, staring outside the window, dreaming of high castle walls and rows of servants, everything that a girl could possibly aspire to be. "What are your words?"

"Growing stronger," Rose recites, words harsh and cold on a black-flecked tongue of golden teeth; she takes a deep breath, concentrating on the Woods—there have been tales of monsters and creatures in there. She had been enchanted by them as a child, but she is not a child anymore—still, sometimes, Septa tells her stories, stories of winter and the shadows that walk amongst there, gathering in number; not just witches who practice black magic and are burned at the stake, but mystical villains or all sorts, conspiring.

There's a knock upon the door, then, an alluring voice calling out from the windows; the eyes of the Septa flicker with hesitance, before settling down upon her lap. "Did you hear that?" Rose asks, voice brimming with fright.

The Septa clasps her fingers together tightly, eyes looking elsewhere as she only says, "Everything is fine, m'lady."

(But, no, nothing is fine, nothing is fine at all.) The cry of the wolves is heard in the distance, howling sounds with yearning and need; "I knew this, I've been told about the people from the North, the rulers of the North—they are vicious savages, are they not?"

"Hush, child. Just because they are not like you, it does not mean that they are savages; they eat upon the hearts of dragons, letting the blood drip down their faces, and their children bathe in this blood. But they are growing stronger, fury runs through their veins and blood, and there will come a time where the Northerners will strike down upon Walden."

Rose smiles, "No, they won't. That is something of fifty-so years ago."

"History repeats itself, m'lady." An unsettling silence forms as she taps a four-noted rhythm upon her lap, fingers clenched tightly; the calling of the voices begins once more, and her neck jerks sharply to the side, fingers quickly moving to untangle the curtains from the windows, eyes pressed to the windowpane, looking for something, anything, to identify with the noises—_birds, _Rose thinks to herself. _Yes, there are birds in this area—Walden is not far from here, and you've learned in your lessons that the birds of azure shade rest upon the treetops._

She looks, with hesitance, upon the treetops which reach up to the sky, curving around one another, and sees that they are bare of anything; droplets of rain splatter upon them, upon the dirt of the ground. _Animals, then. Wild animals. Wild animals are going to attack us. _Septa grows nervous, hands clenched together; Rose can see the way her nails are carving into flesh, white-red skin exposed. "It's them, isn't it."

It's not even a question anymore, not really; they pound on the doors, whatever these creatures are, quicker and quicker, four-noted beats, the beats engraving themselves in her own mind; there is the slamming of the door, and then silence. She can hear the fighting of the soldiers and looks out the window for a brief moment, just a brief one, before Septa shuts the curtains and tells her to hide, face of valor and servitude, on the floor; they are nothing more than tin soldiers with ill-fitted equipment and golden swords._  
_

Outside, the soldiers greet death like old friends, falling upon the grassy road, one by one; _thump, thump, thump. _There is a brief moment of silence, where all Rose can hear is the pitter-patter of rain and the beating of her erratic heartbeats, and then the monsters burst through the door; "There's a safehouse, at the corner of the Woods; tell them I sent you - my Lady, run!"

She doesn't bother looking back for her Septa—it's a matter of survival; it doesn't matter if you are to outrun the monsters, it matters if somebody is left behind to distract them long enough for you to get away; Rose glances over her shoulder for a moment, clutching the bottom of her dress, shoes bloodied and dirtied, quickly discarded and kicked off.

She runs, hungry breaths through the forest; it's only when she stops in what feels like forever, that she bends over, ragged breaths and raspy voice, knocking on the door with bloodied hands and wails. "Let me in, let me in!"

The door opens with a creak; "Scoundrel, are you? Beggar?" There is a man on the other side, composed of gaunt face and whitened hairs growing upon a small head, and Rose looks at him as though he is the monster, shrouded in mist, but stifles a scream and clenches her fist together; _you must be brave, you can be brave; you are royalty, bravery runs through your veins._

(But it is more of stupidity than anything else). "Septa sent me here."

"Septa, then? They're all Septas—from the North, they call them Septas too; which one, then? Mordane? Yaxley?"

There's a brief moment where her mind goes blank, and Rose looks upon the ground, shame running through her eyes, because she doesn't really know the name of the woman who practically raised her, the woman who gave her life so that Rose would have a chance to survive for the meantime. "I don't know."

"Then, I won't be able to let you in, now will I?"

There's a clamor from inside the safehouse, the falling of iron and steel dishes upon the floor; "Let the poor girl in," a burly looking woman orders, words barked out, nothing of the maternal words that Rose would have assumed that the peasant people whispered into their child's ears at night; none of that, not really - lies and secrets are for the rich. The poor have nothing to hide. They have nothing to lose; Rose steps into the house, bare feet placed upon poorly fitted hardwood flooring, nothing of the magic Walden was supposed to contain.

The woman, April, smiles thinly, teeth falling apart, rotting. "Yeah, you see the thing is, girl, you're not the first member of royalty that I've gotten here, so I'm not going to ask you for your nice and fine ID cards and all that stuff; I'll just give you a room for the night, and at first light, you can be off on your high horse, off on your way back to your golden castle. Room's here," she notes, "Down the hallway, first one on the left."

She manages out a thin smile of anger in response, lips pursed together, and lies down upon the bed; in the distance, she can hear somebody slamming through the door, the sound of a world ripping apart, but falls into the arms of sleep. When Rose wakes up again, the light blinding her, she stretches her arms out, reaching into the unknown obscurity; a droplet of blood falls upon her white garments.

She raises her chin towards the ceiling, eyes hesitant to look upwards; she blinks and her eyes flicker to the body draped across the ceiling, pretty blonde curls and skin paler than ivory, engulfed by the flames of a beast. They dance, whispering to her,_ to come play_—

Her scream echoes throughout the safehouse until it is a strangled whisper until it is nothing.)

Rose wakes up, screaming, eyes crazed with insanity—

Heavy breaths, and then silence; _It's not real, it's not real, the monsters aren't real, _Rose reminds herself. _The scientific community would have found such monsters by now. It's not real, you're okay, it's all going to be okay. _Rose composes herself, and tries to forget the dream sequence.

* * *

Later in the day, Rose looks upon the city in the far distance—there's the slightest bit of snow thawing, even though it's mid-way into the months of summer, resting upon the small hills of dirt piles and the like; people run about in the dock, small sized ships sailing around with brightly colored tourist centers here and there. There's a knock on the door, then; Lily walks in, look of nervousness upon features. "Lily," Rose greets, "Thanks for the cat. Pigaupsy's fitting in quite nicely, though I haven't seen him around for a few hours."

"Where's he gone, then?"

"I'm not quite sure—Lysander said that he'd take him around, for a walk." Her responses are half-hearted and Rose is more focused upon looking into the distance than anything else in the moment.

"Pigaupsy's not a dog, you know." Lily inhales the fresh air, opening up the blinds, and then sitting down on the mattress again. "You love him, then don't you?"

Rose takes a deep breath—perhaps Lily Luna was better than most, just getting straight to the point, though diversions and roundabout words were always something she had taken for granted over the years, with the company she associated herself with; they always pretended to say something and didn't mean it, at least the ones she had gotten close to. "I hate him, Lily. I really hate him."

"So, you love him," Lily concludes in a matter-of-fact tone. "All the girls back at school always talk about if they hate a guy, if they say that, it means that they love the guy."

Rose gives her a half-hearted smile, "Well, that's a bit messed-up, isn't it?" _Life's just a bit messed-up; there are those mysterious deaths in the papers, and Mum and Dad keep on hiding secrets from me—I know they're hiding secrets, because why would they never let Hugo or me into the attic? Hugo's sneaked up there a few times, and he says that they just have sticks and old books there. _

"Only as messed-up as you're making this situation into. You sound like a bitter ex, for Merlin's sake," Lily casually mentions, shrugging her shoulders.

Rose's eyes narrow, because this isn't how Lily Luna Potter is supposed to be—she's supposed to be a sweet little girl with a penchant for causing trouble and spreading gossip, the little sweet girl transformed into somebody who isn't afraid to speak her mind, with a tongue sharper than a sword. _Perhaps, _Rose thinks, _while everybody's been changing, I've been holding onto the past for far too long. _"I'll confront him."

Lily gives her a half-hearted smile, "I'm not saying that what Scorpius did was wrong, because it was wrong, it was completely and utterly wrong, but for your own sake, try to move on from the fast. Forgive but never forget."

Rose smiles, "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

The Battle of Hogwarts—

It was something that had gone down in history as a fixed event; started on a Tuesday, ended a week later—it wasn't much of a war, couldn't be considered as a battle by Muggle historians. There were a number of casualties on both sides, but if the numbers had been added up instead of the unidentified number of deaths, it would have been obvious to see who really came out the Victor. "Do you know anything about the Battle of Hogwarts, boy?" The Master questions his latest student, a young boy by the name of Morvyn, son of the Dark Lord.

He nods, "I was born out of hate and anger and only molten iron rests within my blood—"

"Not that, not that." The man's voice is old and frail and fraying at the edges, something hoarse; it is something unlike his own father's sweet and silky voice, something unlike the melodic sounds of the birds that have been captured by the Death Eaters, one killed a day for their own pleasure and sick amusement. "Do you know anything about the history? You were born, yes, but something important."

"Excuse me, I'll have you know, that I am one of the most important people in all of the Wizarding World! Perhaps those other Muggles and the other wizards don't know of me yet, but just wait until Father decides to strike. They'll know who I am."

"Do you want to learn about the Battles?" The Master is composed of wispy hair that hangs down from his face, and unlike the rest of the members, the emblem of a Death Eater is not engraved upon the back of his right arm; he dons flowing black robes like most, however, contrasting with the kindness etched onto his face, and Moryvn sneers at men like the Master, and would outwardly do so if the Master wasn't somebody that all of the children were taught to respect with the utmost sincerity.

"Not particularly." There's no point in lying, not really.

"Then why are you here, child?"

Moryvn rolls his eyes and wonders why hadn't his father just told the Master about his powers—about how in the middle of the night, he was able to do horrible things to the people he had disliked, even if the hate was just for a moment; he dreamed of carving their eyes out, bodies pressed upon the ceiling, and dying in the curling flames, spitting their two-fanged venom. "I am to learn magic, to learn spells—expand my powers. One of father's men said that they're growing each day, so he brought you along to teach me how to develop my powers. So, teach me magic. Give me a wand. Something. Anything."

The Master laughs, voice of gravel, eyes a thousand years old. "You will not learn magic without learning its history; you need your roots, boy. You can't just assume that you'll be able to learn how to kill and how to decapitate heads with just a few flicks of your wand; it's never been that easy, otherwise the Muggles could be learning magic now."

"I'll learn how to kill the Muggles, then, will I?" Muggles, despised little creatures—one of the main goals of the Death Eaters had been originally to eradicate the Muggle species, insignificant humans who bumbled around, causing more trouble than they needed to, but then the other wizards had decided that they weren't going to let this happen, something of, _You kill them, you'll have to kill me first. _

"After you learn how to respect your Elders, after you learn how to—"

"I'm not going to Hogwarts! I'm not, I'm not, this isn't supposed to be like a stupid school where you learn how to respect your elders and follow the rules and all of that nonsense. I need to learn how to kill."

"Do you wish to learn how the Dark Lord was destroyed?" Moryvn only nods—it makes logical sense, to learn about the ways in which the most powerful Dark wizard of all time was defeated by a collection of students banded together, scarlet and gold in their veins, bravery and courage and intelligence and cunning and mercy perhaps could triumph darkness, in the end. "He was destroyed by his own pride. And somebody, boy, you will be destroyed by yours."

* * *

Sunlight beams scatter their radiance across the crooked pavements, burning eyes; they burn holes into the sides of the retina, past the cornea, into the depths of the pupils which flicker with disgust, and with a quick flicker of the hand, a barrier is created, blocking out the sun. "You know," Callum Pettigrew mutters, panting, breaths taken sharply, "When I heard that you were doing some training with the Master, I didn't think you were learning useless spells. When's blocking out the sun ever going to help you?"

"I'm not learning from the Master, he's learning from me, too," is Moryvn's indignant reply.

Callum barks out a laugh, "The Master learning from you? Moryvn, you've been doing magical training for what, six years now? He's been training and learning for his entire life_—_it's still pretty amazing that your father managed to track him down to teach you."

Moryvn shrugs his shoulders, "Well, he is the Dark Lord; he can do anything."

"You have so much confidence in a man that you barely even know; when was the last time that you spoke to your father, without the entire council of Death Eaters standing by, watching your every move?"

Moryvn's eyes narrow; it's the truth, perhaps, but his father is a great man, and he doesn't have time to spend with anybody insignificant, but that won't be for long—he'll be a significant wizard before long. The Master had already told him that his skills were beginning to show; untapped potential and such. "When was the last time you spoke to your father_—oh, right, he's_ _dead_."

"That really wasn't called for, now was it?"

"Grow up, Pettigrew; your father's dead, yes, but you see, my father's actually dead. All that's left of him is rotting flesh, and for some reason or another, he's managed to turn that rotting flesh into the body of a young man. The death of your father: that wasn't tragic, that was stupidity. Your father, Peter Pettigrew; he was a loyal and honest servant, but he was stupid in the end. He chose the losing side, side of the mortals."

"Yes, your Grace," Callum spits out.

Moryvn inhales a deep breath, darkness seeping through his corrupted lungs, and something of an apologetic, smug smile transforms upon his facial features. "I was just trying to help you; you know that weakness—_"_

_"_Yes, weakness is associated with death, and that the Dark Lord will kill any of his members who he believes are weak without a second of hesitation."

"Exactly. Another round, then?"

"I'll take a break, I think." Callum takes a swig of scotch, falling down upon the courtyard's pavement, taking in the view. "A boy could get used to a life like this."

"Sixteen years, aren't you? Shouldn't be drinking that stuff." It isn't the first time that the two of them have found themself in this scenario—perhaps, years prior, they used to be the best of friends, but as they grew older, Moryvn learned of his importance in society, of how all of the other children of respectable members of the Death Eater association, respected him, and expected that out of everybody.

Of course, nobody would defy the son of the Dark Lord; Callum only shrugs his shoulders, a bit annoyed. "Stop telling me what to do; yes, I get that your father's the Dark Lord, but isn't as though you are him."

"I'll be him, one day. Drink as much as you'd like, but don't get used to it. You know what happens when you have too much pride_—_

"Yes, yes, I know, you fall. Let loose, would you? Nothing bad's going to ever happen to you; your father's the Dark Lord."

"Lazing around, the two of you?" The Battlemaster strides in, golden weapons in both of his hands; he throws one to Calllum who clumsily catches it, letting it scatter upon the pavement, before picking it up, resuming a fighting stance, lazily. The other, he keeps in his hand, warm breath on the sheath; on the sheath rests the emblem of the Dark Lord, curved and distorted over the years. "How are you going to learn

"Mind your words; you're talking to the son of a King!" Moryvn retorts, eyes widened in rage.

The Battlemaster guffaws, chortling, "Son of a King; yes, you are son of the Lord, but the Lord is not a King."

You boys, you're both the same; you sew some beast upon a scrap of silk, and suddenly, you're apparently all lions and dragons and eagles."

"You're just a Squib, do you here me? You're just a dirty old Squib, and I don't even know why my father hired you—"

"Yes, you do," the Battlemaster draws out, swords in both hands, clenched tightly, circling both of the bows; Callum has the courage to look afraid, while Moryvn remains snobbish, smirk imprinted upon drawn taut facial features. "I might have been from Muggle training, but fifteen years ago, when the Dark Lord was at his weakest, he couldn't exactly pick and choose, now could he? He was weak," he enunciates. "Weak, and he needed all the help he could get."

"Don't you dare talk of my father in that way."

"I'll do as please, your Grace—are you ready for your training session?"

"Always." Morvyn and the Battlemaster stand close to one another, circling each other; in Moryvn's right hand is an ornately made sword, left hand behind back, the Battlemaster with feet dancing, quick motions back and forth.

Then, a strike forward; Moryvn hits back with his sword, but the usual clink of weapons in which the Battlemaster's sword falls onto the floor and Moryvn declares his supermacy does not occur—the boy's eyes narrow, and he advances forward, quick lunging footsteps. Then, within a single moment, the Battlemaster disarms him, sword falling to the floor and hitting the pavement hard, and he falls down upon the floor, the practice sword brushing against the center of his neck. "Dead."

Callum barks out a laugh, "Teaching the Battlemaster, then?"

The Battlemaster's eyes narrow into even smaller slits. "Time for your lesson then, Pettigrew." Callum advances forward; then, a man strides into the room, flowing black robes a sign of the darkness that is yet to come.

"The Dark Lord—" _It's never father, _Morvyn thinks, _he's too great to be my father, and everybody knows it. _"—requires your presence."

His eyes narrow in suspicion; it seems something of a practical joke - at the age of sixteen, called into the company of the Dark Lord, to assist him? No matter how much pride he has collected through the past fifteen or so years, it does not make much reasonable sense that he will be able to assist his father. Unless the time has come? "The time has come?"

The Death Eater lowers his head, speaking quietly, "The time has come," he confirms.

"It's only been a few years—the last time Father had enough allies to attempt taking over the Wizarding World, it took ages; it's only been what, ten years? He can't be ready, not this quickly. It's just not possible."

The Death Eater smiles, "Come and see for yourself."

* * *

**this is about 5.2k—it's more of a filler chapter too, and i think that next week's chapter will be a lot longer because this week i've been working a lot more on camp nanowrimo for april, plus badminton schedule's getting a bit hectic. thank you so much for all your reviews, guys!**

**i'll go into the whole backstory with scorpius and rose a lot more in future chapters, and like in this chapter, i think the setup for future chapters will be one section about a flashback in junior high, one shorter one in the modern day summer, and one with moryvn in herondale and the plans that the dark lord has. the dream sequences will be more important in future chapters along with rose's connection to diviniation. i'm sorry if this doesn't make sense, and please feel free to help me fix this mess, c:**

**please leave a review, (:**

**xx clara**


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